


We're Living In A Powder Keg And Giving Off Sparks

by BourbonOnTheRocks



Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: Absolute Communicative Disasters, And Also Surprisingly Sober, Awkward Domesticity, Eventual Fluff, Everybody's Tired To Be Fair, F/M, Forced Cohabitation, General Angst, Mick And Annie Are Fairly Judgmental, Porn Leading To Feelings, Rio is into Baking Competition Shows and I will Not Accept Contradiction, Sexual Exploitation But Hey It's Mutual, Vague Friendship, mentions of past humiliation, mentions of past violence, mick is tired, non-verbal consent, sex as a coping mechanism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:28:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25359973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BourbonOnTheRocks/pseuds/BourbonOnTheRocks
Summary: In which Beth and Rio are forced to spend an undefined amount of time together and will rather have sex than talk because they're far better at the former. Loosely set somewhere post S3, but the hitman plot is still ongoing.
Relationships: Beth Boland/Rio
Comments: 30
Kudos: 421





	We're Living In A Powder Keg And Giving Off Sparks

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't sleep the other night so I wrote a little thingy instead. And then it expanded and got out of control so here we are.

Beth doesn't remember everything.

The part she remembers is what happened, well... before it all went wrong. When she discussed the imminently solved Homeboy Project – a euphemism she owes Annie for – with the girls and realized that sooner or later they would need a new distribution system for all the fake cash they keep printing. They'd still need to wash it before the income would conveniently disappear in Boland Bubbles' books. By the way, why did she let Dean in charge of the name of the place, again?

The only problem is, the last time she attempted to create a distribution channel by herself it... wasn't so convincing. Obviously, she can't take this road again. And Gil is a liability now. He's cooked for the street gangs world, it's a certitude. Probably the authorities too. Besides, dealing with untrustworthy ex-convicts isn't exactly the best idea she's ever had so far. And she is done playing low game. But the guy had _coworkers_ , back then. He might have been a fucking amateur, but she'd thought that dealing directly with his maybe more professional connections might be worth the shot. That's... no, it wasn't her worst idea. Honestly.

So she tracked down those guys, set-up a meeting with them, and that's when her memory gets blurry. They probably put something in the coffee she was stupid enough to accept. Now _that's_ her worst idea. By far. Not because Rio treated her relatively fair, she realizes now, means that everyone will.

What followed is a succession of flashes in her mind.

She has no idea of how long she stayed in the basement of that sketchy house, drugged and half-conscious most of the time. But if she were to guess she'd say probably a few days. She hasn't eaten, barely slept. She vaguely remembers being given a glass of – most likely drugged – water once in a while.

She just knows that at some point she felt two strong arms lift her surprisingly gently, recognized the scent, a mix of aged leather and tobacco leaf that she'll forever associate to a desperate nocturnal car ride. She probably drifted away again right after Mick carried her out of the house, because she has no memory whatsoever of what happened next.

And now that she's confusedly blinking and yawning in a room she doesn't recognize, she's more lost than ever. It takes her a minute to get used to the daylight flowing through the window. The room is as impersonal as a hotel but at least the bed is comfy and warm. There's a bottle of water and a glass on the nightstand, along with a couple of pills – painkillers, she realizes.

With a wince at the reminder, she glances under the duvet, notices with a shiver that _somebody_ must have undressed her because she's only in her underwear but that's not what she's here to check.

The bruises along her ribs are still there, unmistakable, and considering the soft groan she can't repress when she stretches to examine her body further, the ones in her back are too. But the pain is fairly below the limits of unbearable, hell, she gave birth four times! So she avidly drinks the water but only glares at the pills.

Gazing around, she notices some folded clothes on a chair near the bed, and she painfully gets up, eager to cover herself. She doesn't know where she is, or _whose_ she's at, and okay, she might have a guess on that one, but it's not the point. She just wants to be prepared in case someone, anyone, barges in. The T-shirt is a bit too large for her, and probably designed for men, but it's better than nothing. She's barely finished adjusting around her waist the sweatpants she found under the shirt when the door cracks open behind her back.

Her head whips around, her eyes meet Rio's and she mentally sighs. What a surprise, really! God, why is he still in the picture, even? What _is_ Fitzpatrick waiting for?

"You up?" he asks.

Which is a dumb question anyway, because even he can tell. But she just nods.

There's some hesitancy in the way he stands in the doorframe, maybe unsure of whether she'll let him step inside. As if that has ever stopped him before, she thinks.

"You okay?"

She nods again.

"What am I doing here?" she questions back.

"You're in a safe place, Elizabeth."

Which is… not really an answer if she's being honest.

Eventually he steps inside and she watches him. Takes in the bags under his eyes and the crease between his brows. He looks tired. The kind of exhaustion coming from too much worrying rather than a lack of sleep due to late partying.

"What happened?" he asks.

There's a shadow of concern darkening his face and she thinks that if he didn't do it himself, whoever undressed her probably told him about the purple bruises adorning her body. Whichever scenario, he _knows_.

"It's none of your business," she replies dryly.

Because truly, it's not. How he found her is a mystery but she hates it. She hates that of all people he's the one who saved her life when she's about to have his taken. She hates that he pops up everywhere, always seemingly ahead of her. She hates him. She wants to get out of here, the sooner the better.

"You been sleepin' 48 hours long since I brought you in, darlin'. Tell me what happened," he insists.

And it's not that he's risen his voice or anything, but she knows how to recognize an order when he gives her one, the endearment only there to soften her up before the blow. And that… enrages her even more.

"How long do I have to stay here?" she asks, mostly deflecting the conversation.

But 48 hours, really? She's still so _tired_ though.

He shrugs, "I ain't abductin' you, Elizabeth. You can leave whenever you want. Just be careful, though. You got some big sharks chasin' you right now."

He sits on the bed, his arms crossed over his chest, a stupid smirk making its way through the tired mask that is his face and her anger rises like bile in her throat. Because sure, she could just walk past him and get out, he's not locking her in or anything. But she doesn't know where she is, for starters. And she's _weak_. She can barely stand without shaking. She needs to eat. To sleep. To heal. Somehow she's trapped here like a wounded creature needing respite, and she has no other choice but to accept that he's a part of this specific equation. For now.

But still.

"Does it mean that you're… _handling_ it?" she eventually asks, gesturing her hand in a motion the signification of which she's not entirely sure of.

He slowly uncrosses his arms and rests his chin in the palm of his hand. Glances up at her, his gaze filtered through his dark eyelashes.

"Yeah… Why would I do that for _you_?" he mockingly asks.

"Why are you keeping me in a safe house, then?" she coldly throws back, raising a challenging eyebrow.

Because he can't pretend that he doesn't care _at all_. His smile vanishes instantly and something hardens his composure.

"What happened, Elizabeth?" he asks again, his voice low, almost threatening.

And the thing is, she absolutely can't tell him why she tried to make a deal with those men. Why she prepared a _replacement_ for when he'd no longer be a part of her business. And if she pulls the first string and starts unfolding this hank, then she knows he'll ask about the reasons behind that meeting. Or even better, he'll infer them.

Maybe she also doesn't want to _remember_ what happened there.

So she shakes her head, slowly, wincing as the motion stretches some sore muscles in her upper back.

"It doesn't matter," she mumbles.

"I ain't leavin' this room 'til you tell me," he replies, stubborn.

She averts her gaze. Facing the room's entrance is a small ensuite bathroom, she noticed that earlier.

She purses her lips, "I'm going to take a shower."

If he wants to play this game, fine, she can lock herself in there all day long for what she cares. And he has to know, more than anyone, how _dismissive_ those simple, domestic words can feel when they come from her.

So after an instant of hesitation she hammers the last nail in the coffin of their cordiality.

"You should go," she adds.

She doesn't wait for his reaction, doesn't wait to see if the blow hit the target. She locks the bathroom door behind herself and turns the shower on before even taking any clothe off. She needs to build a sound screen between the two of them. And it's only when she steps in the shower that she lets the dam break and her walls crumble.

She slides down along the wall until she's sitting on the wet tiles, the warm water rattling around and enveloping her like an isolating cocoon, protecting her from the outside world. She lets sobs she didn't even know she was repressing erupt from her chest and flourish in the safe space she's created for herself, lets the flashing memories overwhelm her.

They wanted to know how she prints the money. The settings of the press, the pulp proportions, everything. They already seemed to have some very specific knowledge about her process, and she is ready to bet that Gil snitched, back in the days. It wouldn't be surprising. But she refused to talk. She wouldn't let them steal _that_ from her, she hasn't worked so hard for this just to see others, whoever they are, taking it away from her. Talking would have been an extremely poor choice anyway. There are good chances that they'd have killed her as soon as she'd have given them what they wanted. These guys aren't in it for the fun.

They tried everything to break her. Well... _almost_ everything. Surprisingly they didn't molest her. Maybe they were keeping that for later, maybe not, as long as it didn't happen she does not even care. But they kept her tied up and drugged in some dirty basement. Starved her. Didn't let her sleep. Kicked her. That's where the bruises come from. They spared her face, another surprising quirk, but they would often kick her in the back, the ribs, the stomach. Not strongly enough to break her bones or blast her organs, though. But the punishments were clearly designed to hurt her. Make her feel powerless.

It all pops up in short, nightmarish visions. A distorted face yelling at her. The continuous headaches. Someone yanking her wrists, tied together in her back, the strain almost dislocating her shoulders. The smells. The sounds. The hunger. In a way she's almost grateful that they drugged her. It probably attenuates her retrospective trauma, the horror all blurred and surreal, overlaid with the foggy texture of a bad dream.

It takes her a while to cry it all away, but in the end she feels quite okay. It's over. And she's tough, more than people generally give her credit for. She'll overcome this. The shower has stopped being even vaguely tepid a while ago when she turns it off, shivering when she realizes how cold the water pouring over her is now. And if Rio gets mad at her for consuming all the available hot water, well… _good_. Although maybe he doesn't live here. Maybe he's just visiting, checking on her.

She's hanging to that hope when she exits the bathroom. At least he's no longer sitting on her bed, and she steps outside, curious and starving. Her room leads to a living-room, not so spacious but nicely arranged. There's an open kitchen on one side, a cozy wooden bar materializing the frontier between spaces.

Rio is slouched in the couch, absorbed by his phone, and he doesn't even raise his head at her as he lets out, "Got you some food on the counter."

There's some fury irradiating from the tension in his shoulders and she doesn't try to provoke him further. She mumbles a barely grateful acknowledgment before she settles on a stool and promptly devours the sandwiches he left – or put out – for her. And Good Lord, the sensation of food filling her stomach again is... delicious. These have to be the best turkey sandwiches she's ever had, nay, the best _food_ , of all meals, she's ever had.

When feeding herself is no longer an emergency, she casts curious glances around her while repressing her yawns – she's still exhausted. There seems to be a second bedroom at the other side of the living room and through the door ajar she can discern discarded clothes and duffel bags on the floor.

"Is someone else staying here?" she casually inquires.

"Me."

His voice is devoid of infuriating irony for once and just... good for him. She would have hit him otherwise because it's definitely _not_ funny. Her face must wear a strange expression though, because when he deigns to raise his head at her he apparently feels the need to elaborate.

"Turns out I got someone after me too."

No. No, no, no. This is _not_ the way things are supposed to be, and she sincerely hopes there's a Yelp equivalent for hitmen because she's itching with the need to give Fitzpatrick an extremely bad review. One star. Got caught, my target's still alive and I'm dead. Something along those lines.

And it's not even the worst part. If Rio knows about Fitzpatrick, how long before he knows _who_ ordered the hit? How long before he strangles her in her sleep while he's pretending to keep her safe? God, maybe he already knows, maybe he's just playing with her like a cat enjoys torturing a trapped mouse.

She swallows, her mouth suddenly dry.

"That's too bad," she murmurs.

"Yeah... Well they might wanna go after you so you'd better stay here 'til that shit's over too."

And God, she must be still seriously concussed from the sequestration. Or sleepy. Or maybe the digestion process has stolen all the focus her brain is able to provide right now.

Because she instantly blurts out, "Oh, I don't think that would be a problem."

Truly the prospect of having to stay in this two-bedroom apartment with Rio any longer than strictly necessary is too horrendous for her not trying to demonstrate the futility of his argument. She just realizes too late the mistake she just made. It takes her all she has not to cover her mouth with her hand and blow the entirety of what remains of her credibility.

A strange smile curves his lips but doesn't reach his eyes and he tilts his head, thoughtful.

"And why is that, Elizabeth?" he drawls, mellow and treacherous.

"Because... you're the big boss. I'm not that interesting," she breathes, barely able to think of an explanation, her heart pounding so loud the whole neighborhood can probably hear it.

He chuckles. But if anything, it's sinister.

"Tell me, why did I find you beat up, again?"

She bits her bottom lip, vanquished. He's right. She's a target too. But more importantly, she can tell from the way he's looking at her that he knows exactly what she did to end up in the unfortunate situation he found her in. And _why_ she did it. His satisfied smirk says it for him, that he knows now what he previously needed confirmation for. But there's something else behind his eyes. A shadow, tarnishing his glorious triumph. Disappointment maybe. As if he'd suspected it, but really hoped he was wrong.

She's ashamed of herself, really. Not for disappointing him, or whatever that sad feeling darkening his gaze is, but for not even being able to come up with a plausible lie to serve him. Surprisingly, the thought that he might intend to murder her very soon for what she did only jumps second in her mind. But it's not... well, his look is not homicidal, he doesn't scare her.

But still, just in case she pulls a sensitive string, insists on a well-worn pity argument, reminds him of what she'll leave behind.

"What about my children? And my friends? Are they in danger?"

He shrugs, his mouth twisting in disgust almost, as if he'd just smelled something rotten.

"I don't give a fuck. Hey, I'll tell you what. Why don't you just sort your shit and I'll sort mine, yeah? Your purse's in your room. Give 'em a call."

This time he's unmistakably angry. He even adds theatrics to the mix, furiously striding towards his room and slamming the door behind him.

She barely shrugs, unimpressed. Apparently he's not going to murder her in her sleep and it's all that matters. The rest can wait, she's too exhausted to deal with it anyway.

Back in her room, she sends a few texts – she's too tired to call – to Annie, Ruby, and Dean, telling the formers that she's okay and sending instructions regarding the kids to the latter. Then she lets herself fall on her bed and she's already asleep before her body even hits the mattress.

It's petty, the way Rio doesn't talk to her at all over the following days. Weeks, even. Not a single word. Although what else could she expect from him? Honestly it's a relief. She doesn't want to talk to him either. 

And as her bruises fade and the days go by, soon she falls into a routine.

She checks on the kids every evening, keeps them entertained with stories, explains that mommy got sick and needs to rest and heal for a while but promises she'll be back very soon. After, she generally FaceTimes Annie or Ruby. They located her through Find My Friend the very first time she called, and she knows now that she's staying only a dozen miles away from home. But it's pointless knowledge, as long as the coast isn't clear for her. She isn't taking the risk to get locked in a basement again.

Mick brings fresh groceries twice a week and she makes a meal schedule. For herself. Rio and she don't share their meals, not even the cooking part. A silent, implicit agreement had them allocating personal shelves in the fridge and the kitchen, and they both ignore each other whenever they have to share the narrow space of the kitchen.

When she's not cooking or eating, or talking to friends and family over the phone, she rests. She spends hours reading on that special spot on the couch that she likes and has wordlessly flagged as hers after the cushions incident – really, there's enough space in that living room for Rio to find himself another spot – or watches movies lying on her bed until she falls asleep.

She just waits for the day Rio will tell her that she can go, which... sounds more complicated than she initially thought. Apparently she poked a much bigger dragon than expected with that meeting and now there's some gang war going on outside. That's at least what she concludes from a few conversations she eavesdrops between Mick and Rio, and it gets confirmed a couple of days later when Mick brings her some personal items – clothes, mostly – from her house, suggesting a much longer stay than planned. He wordlessly drops two suitcases and a duffel bag on her bedroom floor before he just leaves, apparently giving her the same silent treatment his boss does. And at this point, the latter is basically a moving spot in the peripheral of her vision. She probably has more interactions with the spider in her bathroom.

But in the core of their silent coexistence, there's tension slowly accumulating between them. She doesn't notice it at first, taut in fierce ignorance. But it's there, though. It's here when they brush past one another during meal cooking times, when their fingers accidentally touch over the salt pot. It lingers in the way he looks at her sometimes, when he thinks she's absorbed by the book she's reading on the other side of the couch and doesn't notice. It sends heat flowing through her body when she catches herself staring for too long at the rings on his fingers when he types on his phone, imagining his hands on her skin. It grabs her throat whenever they're in the same room and she suddenly needs to put as much space as she can between them or she feels like she will burst.

It keeps her up at night too.

Granted, she hasn't been sleeping well since she woke up in this apartment. But it doesn't help, that he's around. At first she just thinks about it in her bed. About the moments when _it_ happened during the day, brief upsurges of butterflies through her belly in the middle of the dull hostility structuring most of their silent interactions. 

But then she starts thinking about what _could_ have happened. Missed opportunities. If she'd let her hand linger just a little longer. If she'd deviated from her trajectory for just a few millimeters on the right, enough for their arms to actually touch. If she'd fully stretched her legs on the couch, poked at his lap with her feet. And it's not that she actually _wants_ this to happen. It would be the weirdest, awkwardest thing ever. She just... entertains the fantasy.

But eventually her thoughts get filthier, out of control, entangled with memories. And it doesn't help that she already knows how he feels inside of her, or the noises he makes when he comes. It just makes everything more accurate. And she really _shouldn't_ think about him this way, not anymore, not after she shot him three times and paid someone else to finish a job she couldn't complete. But well, she... it's been so long since she's been touched, held. Let alone fucked. Properly, at least.

Her fantasies don't survive the break of dawn, though. During daytime, she meets again with the cold, hostile vibe leaking from the way they both act around each other. But still, she raves about him at night. Until, well. Fuck it. She has _needs_. And eyes. And he conveniently happens to stay across the living room.

So one night she gets up and silently tiptoes to his door. She hesitates in front of his room, though. She's insane. This is a very bad idea, if she ever had any. But maybe going back to bed _now_ would feel even more ridiculous. Frustrating. Annoyed with herself, she softly pushes the door open, steps inside, takes some time to get used to the darkness.

By the time she's made her way next to his bed, his eyes are open, catching the faintest crumb of light and sparkling in the dark, and she doesn't know why she's not surprised that he's such a light sleeper. He doesn't say anything and neither does she. Talk about a change. For protracted minutes they just silently stare at each other. The thought that he might interpret her coming in his bedroom in the middle of the night as a murder attempt eventually crosses her mind. And maybe that's what pushes her toward the next step.

She raises both her hands at her chest and slowly unbuttons her pajama top, her eyes locked with his. When she's done she shakes it off her shoulders and lets the clothe fall down on the floor. She awkwardly stands in front of him, braless, and he doesn't move, still peers at her with attention. An instant later she pulls her sweatpants down to her ankles, steps outside of them and waits, completely naked, her silent question made explicit.

The room is too dark for her to catch every nuance passing on his face but eventually he crawls a little backward, and lifts the duvet, the invitation not deliriously welcoming but clear. She climbs in bed with him and presses her back against his chest. Because... She can't handle seeing his face right now, let alone kissing him. What she is doing is already wrong enough, she doesn't need the additional layer of embarrassment.

And maybe she's acting appallingly rude here, but he doesn't really seem to mind. He buries his face in her hair, strokes her hip with one hand and she mewls softly under his touch. She missed this. His heat, his hand on her bare skin, his scent. Soon his hands are _everywhere_ and he's got a finger constantly working at her clit, eliciting broken gasps from her throat. She doesn't dare to moan though. Maybe if she's barely vocal she can make this madness less real? And perhaps she's also afraid that if she gets too loud he'll wake up from the trance and push her away. But his fingertips light a new fire on every spot they touch and soon she rolls her hips against him in a desperate search for friction, reaches a hand behind her head to cradle the cropped hair at the back of his neck.

He breathes loudly against her ear, and when she presses her bare ass against his crotch, silently begging for what she came all the way to his bed for, he curses under his breath. Eventually he indulges her request, pulls himself out of his briefs and slides into her effortlessly – God, she had _not_ realized she was so wet already – and she has to bite her lips to repress a moan, her fist clutching the sheet. They both gasp when he starts moving inside of her.

There's no reverence in the way he touches or fucks her, though. If anything it's precise, accurately aiming to the point. Nothing even remotely evocative of a feeling in their encounter. It's just the release of some animalistic primary drive. It's... _mating_ , really. He doesn't last long and neither does she, letting out a series of choked whimpers as she comes hard on his cock.

He rolls to the other side of the bed when he's done and she leaves the room in silence, picking up her pajamas on the floor on her way out.

Neither of them mentions the incident on the next day, and it's a relief. Rio keeps ignoring her as if nothing had ever happened, and honestly she expected him to be quite more of an asshole about it. Maybe she's not the only one who'd rather pretend it never happened than grab an opportunity to annoy the other.

Things seem normal – provided the very concept of normality still makes sense when it comes to their interactions – and she thinks it's the end of it. Only two nights later she's back in his bed, incapable of lying alone in her own one more minute. He fucks her from behind again and they part ways as soon as it's over.

It's absolutely unhealthy. Disgusting, almost. As much as she's glad that their daytime non-interactions remain unchanged, she decides she has to stop it before it's too late. So she resists the temptation for a few nights, bravely. She stays in her room, even when the itch grows and her hand won't be enough to scratch it. But then he's the one who messes up. One night she abruptly wakes up to find him standing by her bed, quietly watching her. And it's the creepiest thing, but if she's being honest... she's been there, she knows what he's here for. There's no point in pretending that this is a misunderstanding.

And look, it's one thing to manage to stay in her bed while she's dripping with the need of his skin. It's another to resist when he's brought it directly to her. So she lets him bend her over the mattress and entangle his hand in her hair while he relentlessly pounds into her. She arches her back, covering her mouth with her hand to muffle the sounds she can't repress when he pushes deep and hard inside of her, his lips brushing her shoulder blade.

And it seems like it only takes three times to develop a habit because they never stop after that. It's not every night, more an every other night kind of thing. Sometimes he shows up, sometimes she does. It's not... _mandatory_ though, God no. He turns her down a couple of times, grumpily rolling in his bed in the world's most dismissive motion, and she does too, when she's in her period or just not in the mood. Which, for the record, _happens_.

They never talk about it. They never talk at all anyway. Eventually they thaw a little bit during daytime, but it starts by accident. One evening she cooks too much pasta for herself and when she puts the leftovers in the fridge she obliviously stores them on his shelf. She only realizes her mistake on the next day when she finds them gone, but discovers on her own shelf an extra slice of homemade pizza. And obviously she has to return the favor. Or turn down the pizza, but the thing is, she's already eaten it. And it was delicious. So she responds with a portion of lamb stew.

And little by little, they relax around each other. They still won't talk, or only for minimal, domestic emergency purposes, but at least they can handle being in the same room together. After a few days of Tupperware shenanigans, she decides that maybe they can handle mutualizing the cooking. And from there it's a small leap for them to share their meals too.

They still fuck on the regular, always in the dark, always from behind. They never kiss, never display the slightest gesture that wouldn't be entirely sexual. It's purely selfish release but it seems like neither of them has any problem with it. He's using her and she's using him. Maybe it's the only thing they're truly equal at. But even devoid of the tiniest crumb of...of feelings? Care? Whatever. Well, the sex is still beyond great. There's something unchanged in the way their bodies move in synch, perfectly matching each other, despite – or maybe because of – their mutual resentment. How she can come so hard in the arms of a man who murdered her friend in front of her and that she's still trying to kill is a mystery she dares not question too much, for the sake of her own sanity.

But the point is, she cannot stop. And it takes her a couple more weeks, but little by little she starts regretting having ordered the hit. There's something _indecent_ , even for her, in begging Rio for his cock and letting him come inside of her three times a week while she stuck a target label in his back. And also, the thought of Fitzpatrick's amused smirk if he ever hears of the new... _arrangement_ she has with Rio infuriates her. They are not lovers. That's an absurd concept. They're just... optimizing one awkward, uncomfortable situation. But she'll never hear the end of it if he finds out.

So eventually she texts Fitzpatrick to cancel, and she doesn't even claim her 60 grand back. It's probably a huge mistake, though. Just because he's fucking her doesn't mean that Rio has suddenly become less of a threat to her business and her peace of mind. She would _know_. But at this point, she just wants to never hear from Fitzpatrick again.

Which, as it turns out, is not without embarrassing consequences.

"Hey, I got the weirdest call from, you know… our _friend_ " Annie conspiratorially hisses over FaceTime.

The reception is bad and it seems like a bunch of pixels devoured her sister's face, but Beth still can tell that her eyebrows are pinched, trying to understand the sudden shift in the course of events.

"Yeah, about that. There's been a little… change of plans," Beth whispers back to the phone.

It's fairly unlikely that Rio can hear her from the living-room though, locked as she is in her bathroom, with her bedroom door closed in between. But it's a too sensitive topic for her to take any risk.

And, granted. He knows. She's practically certain of it. But it's not a reason for her to gift him with a full confirmation that she's the one who ordered the hit.

"Why?" Annie asks. Protests, even. "I thought we were finally freeing ourselves and all that leadership bullshit you served us the last time we talked about it!"

Beth sighs, "It's… complicated. And do I have to remind you that we still don't have a reliable distribution system? The last plan we tried sent me to a _safe house_!"

"Right. How are you doing by the way?"

There's concern in her voice and Beth suddenly wants to hug her baby sister more than anything in the world.

"Okay, I guess."

"Is Gangfriend treating you right?"

And just... how can she even begin to answer that? Does impersonally fucking people on their request count as treating them well?

"We're… mostly ignoring each other, so it's all right," Beth confesses.

But maybe there's the faintest hesitation in her voice, perhaps her tone gives it away, she has no clue. But Annie suddenly lets out a shocked gasp.

"Oh my God, are you two boning again? Is that why you called Fitz off?"

"Shhh, don't say his name!" Beth protests, deflecting the conversation.

"But –"

"Gotta go! Bye," Beth precipitately mutters before she ends the call, her cheeks red with embarrassment.

She avoids calling Annie for three days after that. But it's pointless because obviously her sister snitched and Ruby calls her out on the very next day. And look, it's not that Beth is proud of the situation. Not at all. She _despises_ it. But she hates the slightly condescending judgment in her best friend's voice, the shocked reprobation in her sister's texts. They don't know what they're talking about. All they see is the cruel, scary gangbanger who executed an innocent girl. Which he _is_ , undoubtedly. But Beth also gets to see... what? another side of him, maybe.

Because things have been going pretty well, actually. Now they silently cook and eat side by side, watch movies or TV together. On a memorable occasion, Rio even pulls a joint out of his pocket and wordlessly offers it to her. And they just spend the afternoon quietly smoking and relaxing, curled up in their respective favorite spots on the couch. Letting out a soft giggle once in a while too.

Sometimes they even play games, an activity which always leaves them overexcited from the competition, no matter who won. And the post game-night sex is... _specific_. In a good way. They still won't properly acknowledge their nocturnal fucking sessions, but things have slightly evolved in the bedroom too. They don't awkwardly part ways right after it's over anymore, almost ashamed of themselves. Now they indulge in each other's company for an instant. Sometimes she even dozes off against him for a few minutes while he softens inside of her, his arm wrapped around her stomach, before they let each other go. She feels warm and safe there, surrounded by his scent and his soothing presence.

And they still don't talk much but she could get used to this, to the silent ballet of their well laid out domesticity with benefits.

Until the TV breaks.

It's not really a big deal, though. She can live without it. They both can. But they got used to some routine and it's too bad that it happens on the very day when the Finale of this baking competition show they're both oddly into is airing. They haven't missed any episode so far. She yells at contestants who put too much cream in the ganache, while he trash talks those who mess up with the montage. The Finale _is_ a big deal.

It takes them several infructuous mending attempts before Rio suggests that they stream it from the internet on his laptop. And from there it seems natural that they both watch it on his bed instead of the couch, because the wi-fi reception is better in his room.

It doesn't change so much from the couch honestly, people shouldn't be so fussy about it. If anything it's comfier.

So comfy that when she wakes up she doesn't remember who won the baking contest – and she probably fell asleep before they announced the results anyway. The room is plunged in the dark except for the feeble blue light glowing from the laptop's screen, turned to sleep mode for being inactive too long. And it takes her a few more confused seconds to remember where she is, but suddenly she's extremely aware of the fact that her head is resting on Rio's chest, her palm pressed over the spot where his bullets scars supposedly are, and that his arms are wrapped around her. There's a minor horror at the idea that they're _cuddling_ , which... ew, but it's quickly swept away by something else.

A shaky realization, maybe. They fell asleep together watching a TV show, and that's... well that's _something_ , although she's not exactly sure of what. But it's not what they normally do. Somehow he must have sensed that she's awake because the muscles in his body tense under her palms as he emerges too. His arms tighten around her and she oddly leans into it, doesn't push him away like she should.

Instead she slowly – lazily, almost – reclines her head, feels his stubble slide across her face and then their lips meet in the dark.

It's electrifying. 

Although she's still half-asleep, the contact ignites all the nerves in her body and she faintly mewls when his lips start moving against hers. Then his hands cup her face and his fingers entangle in her hair while he deepens the burgeoning kiss, and something shatters inside of her. They kiss slowly at first, sleep weighing each of their movements before it gradually intensifies. She clings to his neck, presses her mouth harder against his and opens up for him, welcomes his tongue with ardent enthusiasm. The making out session is intensely long, the need almost painful, as if filling up for all the weeks and literal months they spent ignoring it. They kiss like desperately horny teenagers, and she doesn't even know how long it has been going on when their hands start pulling at fabric and undoing buttons, as if suddenly possessed by a life of their own.

They do a quick job at undressing each other, their bodies made known territories mapped out on their fingertips from weeks of touching in the dark, their lips never disjointing in the process. Then she guides him on top of her, grabs his necklace to pull him closer as he props himself on his elbows. And sure, they've been fucking on the regular for a while now, but this time it feels different. They can touch, and kiss, and lick, and be loud.

She'd forgotten how much he likes sucking her breasts while he moves inside of her, how much she likes to stroke his back and dig her nails in his scalp. She'd forgotten what his lips taste like, and the softness of his tongue in her mouth. She'd missed kissing him. But it doesn't matter because it is happening now. The sex is passionate, but sloppy. There's too much they want to do at the same time and it's fueled by a sleepy urgency, like they're both scared to wake up completely and realize what they're doing. And it's not that she comes harder than usual, or that she feels her heart swelling in her chest, or any romantic silliness of the kind, but it's... different. And when he comes with a choked noise, panting in her neck and exuding barely concealed vulnerability, it feels different too.

They probably fell back asleep in a post-sex haze because when she wakes up again there's daylight hitting against the window and she's... well she's covered in various dried body fluids, a last fact which definitely convinces her that this whole thing wasn't a dream.

"I need a shower," she murmurs, mostly to herself.

"That an invitation?"

The lazy drawl emerges from a rumble of sheets and she mhhs noncommittally. She doesn't know how he feels about, well, _this_. God, she's not even sure of how _she_ feels, for starters. So she leaves him to the decision making while she makes her way to his bathroom.

Obviously he follows her.

But she doesn't look back, too afraid he might just disappear if she does. But apparently he's still behind her when she turns the shower on and grabs the soap because he takes it from her hands and gently rubs it against her skin. And she just... closes her eyes and leans against him. Everything that has happened over the past few hours belongs to the realm of unexpected, and somehow she's curious to see how far it can go. He seems particularly eager to soap her breast and make sure there isn't an inch of skin he hasn't touched, and she has to bite the inside of her cheeks not to smile. And then not to sigh languidly as his hands roam her body, gliding freely over her skin under the combined effect of soap and warm water.

When she feels like she'll just combust if he keeps touching her any longer she pivots in his arms and reopens her eyes. It's been... a while, since the last time she's seen him naked, and he looks even better than in her memory. He seems to have lost a little bit of weight though – not that she thought that it was even possible – and she has a good guess about where it comes from. It took away a certain softness, as if his whole body, instead of patches of skin, was marred by her violence. But it brought a new, sharp strength to his features.

She catches herself staring at his body a bit too long and she forces her gaze up to meet his. There are droplets of water running down his face like tears and a conflicted look in his eyes – mirroring her own confusion. He tentatively reaches for her mouth and she instantly responds, kisses him to forget how she feels about kissing him. See, this is crazy and wrong but maybe if she buries it deep enough, extinguishes it between their jointed lips, maybe it won't matter anymore.

He kisses her back with the same abandon and pulls her closer, brings her under the jet with him. Soapy foam leaves her skin in white streams dripping down her legs and it feels like some embarrassment is washed away too in the process. She clings to his neck, pushes her tongue in his mouth and he grabs the back of her thighs to lift her and pin her against the wet tiles of the wall in response.

And that... that's something she knows. It feels like taking an old road again, where every rut and every bump is familiar, as if her body has practiced every move hundreds of times before. Only it happened once. But every detail is engraved somewhere in the depth of her brain. As if struck by the same muscle memory, Rio's lips leave her mouth to her neck and she gently whines against his ear, digging her fingers in the nape of his neck and asking for more.

He rubs the tip of his cock at her entrance but she isn't as wet as she usually is. The shower has taken away part of her lubrication and there's more friction when he starts pushing in. He presses his forehead against hers and they both gasp, their mouths open and breathing the same air, as he bottoms out. Eventually he starts moving inside of her, deep and slow, and she lets out strangled noises, overwhelmed with the sensation and oblivious of anything else. Soon he falls into a delicious rhythm, the pleasure accumulating inside of her with each of his thrusts while his lips avidly explore her neck, her face, her mouth. Hoarse gasps escape from his throat every time he pushes deep into her, and she lets her own moans expand freely, gain in intensity because this time she can. This time he's no longer a stranger who impersonally fucks her in the dark. This time it's _him_. So she screams his name when she comes and it echoes in the bathroom, reverberates against the tiles in a vibrating acknowledgment.

She's shaking when he gently brings her down, and he kisses her one more time, deeply, his tongue slowly claiming her mouth, before he lets her go, almost reluctantly. She wraps herself in a towel before she exits the bathroom and walks into his room, picking up the clothes she merrily spread around during the night. And sure, she could put them back on right now, but it's ridiculous. She has a room, with fresh clothes in it, right across the living room, and it's not as if someone besides Rio could see her.

Except that when she steps into the living room she freezes. Mick is there, casually unpacking groceries, and... he cannot _not_ have heard them. He probably felt her presence or something because he raises his head at her, gives her a minimalistic nod before going back to his housekeeping task. But she caught the knowing half-smirk on his lips. Along with something else, grumpier. Disapproval, maybe. Which is. Incredibly sassy. But she's blushing so deep it probably reached her navel already so she doesn't call him out and safely retreats to her room.

Behind the closed door she can hear Mick and Rio talking in the living room and she can't help but wonder. Maybe they're talking about her, she thinks, frantically folding clothes and sorting stuff. Maybe she let him in too far, let him see too much. Maybe this whole thing was a terrible idea. Maybe Rio's just going to –

A soft knock on her door interrupts her beginning of a nervous breakdown. She's not even dressed yet, only in her underwear but she grunts an invitation to come in. It's Rio. Outwardly he looks as confident and mocking as usual, but over the past few weeks she's reached this level of intimate knowledge about him. She can tell that he's as lost and anxious as she is.

His eyes take some time to check her up and down, his jaw rocking in appreciation at her absence of outfit, but eventually he comes closer, his eyes locked with hers. He waits a couple of seconds, probably for her rebuttal, but she lets him stand in front of her, expecting. So he raises a hand and she closes her eyes in an exhale as soon as his pinky touches her forehead.

He hasn't done that since... a while ago.

When his hand is gone and she reopens her eyes, there's a silent question in his. But this time she knows the answer.

She presses on her toes and kisses him.

He wraps his arms around her and it's the prelude of three delirious days of barely interrupted sex, their frenzy only pausing for napping times they spend snuggled against each other and munching breaks. They still don't talk, only letting out each other's name when they come, but they just can't part. Maybe they're too afraid of letting each other go, as if the charm will be over as soon as they stop touching.

Eventually they come to a halt, when their muscles are sore and their skins are raw, their lips cracked from too much frantic kissing. She's not sure there is any spot left in the apartment where they didn't fuck.

They've been drowsing for a while, cuddled up against each other, his fingers trailing up and down her arm, when his phone buzzes. He stretches an arm to reach for it with a sigh of lassitude, quickly followed by a little surprised squeak.

"Coast clear," he elaborates. "We leavin' tomorrow."

It comes out as a shock. For weeks, she's been waiting for the instant this forced quarantine with him would end. And now... Now she can't bear the idea of catching back with reality. Of losing what she has here and now. The bubble they're living in is as thin and fragile as the wings of the butterflies in her stomach, and she knows it will tear up as soon as she'll step back in the outside world. They'll come back to the way they were. To Before.

Suddenly she wants to cry.

And maybe Rio feels her distress because he squeezes her waist, gently.

"We should talk, Elizabeth," he murmurs, a distant warning in his voice.

"Yeah…" she dreamily replies.

But the thing is, she's not ready. Talking is what always ruins it for them. As soon as they'll step back in their normal selves he'll ask her about Fitzpatrick and she'll jump at his throat for taking over her business, he'll threaten her and she'll rob him. Maybe they've been living a lie here, been such different selves not to make both of their existences a living hell. And at some point it derailed, but... she doesn't know what's happening here. She doesn't want to put words on it, let alone...

_Let's just not label it, okay?_

"Later," she decides.

He chuckles and kisses her temple, condescendence cracking through the agreement in his response. It's illusory, to think that she can avoid the reality of them forever. But maybe she can live in the mirage a little longer. So she holds on to him tighter, and they both doze off in the peaceful quiet of the afternoon.

**Author's Note:**

> 🎶 I really need you toniiiiiight! Forever's gonna start toniiiiight 🎶 (title from Total Eclipse Of The Heart by Bonnie Tyler in case you missed it)


End file.
